FASCINATED BY A WREN. 77 



few moments' eager suspense we saw our bird. 

 He was little and inconspicuous in shades of 

 brown, with tail stuck pertly up, wren fashion, 

 forasino- anion o- the dead leaves and on old logs, 

 entirely unconscious that he was one of the three 

 distinguished singers of the wood ; none but the 

 hermit thrush and the veery being comparable 

 to him. Whenever, in the serious business of 

 getting his breakfast, he reached a particularly 

 inviting twig, or a more than usually nice rest 

 on a log, he threw up his little head and poured 

 out the marvelous strain that had taken us cap- 

 tive, then half hopped, half flew down, with 

 such energy that he " whirred " as he went. We 

 watched his " tricks and manners," and, what 

 was more, we steeped our souls in his music as 

 long as we chose, that morning. 



The lovely long June days were never more 

 fascinating. Every morning we went into our 

 beloved woods to watch its bird population ; to 

 find out who was building, who had already set 

 up housekeeping ; to penetrate their secrets, and 

 discover their wonderfully hidden nests. Each 

 day we heard the witching song that never lost 

 its charm for us. One morning — it was the 

 fifteenth of the month — we were sauntering up 

 one of the most inviting paths. The dog was 

 ahead, carrying on his strong and willing neck 

 his mistress's stool, she following closely. 



